Fatherhood

Sept 17 2003

Of course we are all children

once,

and a mother

who offered-up her breast,

and a father

who may have missed our first wet breath,

tentative , when we met

in the blood, and sticky mess

of motherhood.

An outsider

who would never dare confess

weakness,

so unsure

he was capable

of that much love,

could give himself utterly up

to this helpless squabbling child.

But we are susceptible to entanglement

and this fierce mysterious attachment.

Amazing

how fate can triumph over will --

the conceit

of romantic love we choose;

and this other love

we are powerless to refuse.